“I'faith, then, your eyes deceived you. It was an accident, I say—and who should know better than I?” He was smiling in that whimsical enigmatic way of his. Smiling still he sank back into Gascoigne's arms.
“You are talking too much,” said the Major.
“What odds? I am not like to talk much longer.”
The door opened to admit a gentleman in black, wearing a grizzle wig and carrying a gold-headed cane. Men moved aside to allow him to approach Mr. Caryll. The latter, not noticing him, had met at last the gaze of Hortensia's eyes. He continued to smile, but his smile was now changed to wistfulness under that pitiful regard of hers.
“It is better so,” he was saying. “Better so!”
His glance was upon her, and she understood what none other there suspected—that those words were for her alone.
He closed his eyes and swooned again, as the doctor stooped to remove the temporary bandages from his wound.
Hortensia, a sob beating in her throat, turned and fled to her own room.